January 27, 2005
My wiser, waaaaay older sister (‘sup, Kimmie?) once told me there are two types of list-makers in this world:
1) The type that makes a “To Do” list and systematically accomplishes every last little item on the list (‘sup, Mamacita?); and
2) The type that makes a “To Do” list, then promptly forgets ever making it, leaving her day open for going out and doing whatever the bejeebies she feels like doing. Because she MADE the list, for Pete’s sake. Keep up. At some point she will actually do the stuff on it, so STEP OFF, bizzyotch!
With no disrespect intended toward my much, MUCH ooooolder, wiser sister (still chillin’, Kim?), I would like to humbly offer up a third type of list-maker:
3) The type that makes a “To Do” list mainly composed of things she has already done that day (or week, whatev, it’s all about pacing, pacing is key), thus enabling said list-maker to gleefully cross each little item off her lengthy “To Do” list with self-satisfied abandon. ABANDON, I say! She will then leave her heavily crossed-out “To Do” list in a prominent, high-traffic area for maximum exposure and veneration.
Now that’s what I’m talking about.
January 27, 2005
I’m obviously a sick, sad little person, but I have to admit, this is FUNNY:
(Click on “HSN Samurai-Sword demonstration accident.”)
“A piece of that tip just got me, Odell… Ooooh, that hurt good.”
Best. Line. EVER.
January 26, 2005
What Brightens My Day:
My five-year-old, Allison, after her doctor appointment (therefore alone for once in the backseat of my car), belting out Kelly Clarkson’s Since U Been Gone. In tune and heartfelt, to boot.
My seven-year-old, Hannah, creating a dioramic world of red-scarfed, pipe-cleaner reindeer, free-standing pipe-cleaner heart trees, origami snowflakes, and bejeweled Polly Pockets, blending almost indistinguishably against a lovingly painted background in an old cardboard box.
My nine-year-old, Tanner, wearing his (thankfully!) lightweight airplane pajamas under his clothes all day at school because changing was apparently not an option in his mad rush to beat his sisters to the last two packets of instant oatmeal. Maple flavored.
My husband, Aaron, kicking back in our IKEA Poang chair, eating a frozen Gogurt and watching a fresh episode (finally!) of Gilmore Girls with me. Oh, and making comments such as, “Ooooh, Rory shouldn’t have said that, huh Cat?”
Debilitating cramps and snooze-inducing guest speakers during high-powered, work-related meetings.
Dry heaves brought on while unwittingly observing colleague scratch, peel and eat own skin during said high-powered, work-related meetings.
Bobble Head Jesus and the God Almighty Action Figure (Mint In Box!) on proud display in my neighbor’s cubicle.
January 25, 2005
“Can I borrow your trampoline?”
This morning I received this rather cryptic email from my eleven-month pregnant friend/colleague. Cryptic, because 1) I don’t own a trampoline (well, anymore), and 2) it’s like, oh, I’d say ONE (1!) degree outside. With a wind-chill factor of negative freezing-my-buttocks-off. Oh, and the pregnancy thing. So, cryptic.
Then I remembered a conversation we had several months ago when I regaled her with the tale of this crazy woman I know trying to induce labor by taking matters into her own hands and darn near killing herself– okay, MYSELF, it was me, ME! gosh!– on my mother-in-law’s trampoline. Not to mention straining those freaking springs beyond all recognition. Man, those trampoline beds can really give, you know? I mean, like, honest-to-goodness, wide-load-slamming-into-the-ground give! Let’s just say the nieces and nephews were NOT happy with Aunt Cat. And I must admit the broken springs flying every which way were obviously a potential hazard. (Heh-heh… Twang!) Oh, ho ho… good times, good times….
What? Like you didn’t try it.
This simple question started a flurry of emails discussing the relative merits of every do-it-yourself pregnancy starter known to man.
At some point I suggested castor oil, as my mother-in-law swears that felicitous elixir worked for her. Then again, she told me eating raw wheat germ would help me get pregnant (hmmm… I DID get pregnant the month I tried that! Dun dun DUN!) Apparently, the agonizing spasms caused by the– well, ahem, heh heh, you know– Get Things Going. It sounds twelve types of disgusting to me, but desperate times call for desperate blah blah blah…
She apparently did not care for the idea of “spasms” (I can’t say I blame her, really), and shot back a reference to an author who propounds that simply having sex is the better option, citing that the best course of action is to “frequently make love and have orgasms, whether by yourself or with your partner!” By yourself OR with your partner! Well! That sounds fun! Except, did I mention the eleven months pregnant thing? Oh, and apparently a generous amount of nipple stimulation is strongly encouraged. Well thank goodness she pointed that out, we both agreed.
This conversation ultimately culminated with the reminiscence of my last labor experience. Coincidentally, TGIM and I had read an article similar to the one she was quoting. Do I even need to tell you how on-board he was with the whole “have lots of orgasms” thing? I was all, “No, honey, ME. ME!”
In fact, if I recall correctly, while in the labor room he asked me if I wanted him to stimulate my nipples, you know, to speed things up a bit. That’s right. He was offering to fiddle with my nipples. Right there. In the labor room. DURING LABOR. In front of the nurses, God, AND EVERYBODY. Oh, I do not kid.
(In his defense, I am pretty sure one of the nurses suggested this whole nipple stimulation scenario originally. You heard me. Can you say “Awkward Moment”? When did I sign up for pregnancy porn?! “PUSH! boom chicka wow wow…”)
In between excruciating contractions and blissful Stadol haziness, I sensibly suggested we just have sex; I mean, why go half-way?
That shut him up.
Incidentally, I believe my friend is starting to lean toward the castor oil. Apparently, spasms are looking better all the time.
January 24, 2005
Oh, how I love thee, Work At Home day.